


Taste of Iron

by Paperback_Librarian



Category: Empire of Storms - Fandom, MAAS Sarah J. - Works, Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: EoS spoilers, spoiler warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9461669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperback_Librarian/pseuds/Paperback_Librarian
Summary: 116 Years before Aelin Galathynius began her journey to the throne, another heir was born to the Witch Kingdom. Manon Blackbeak must grow and survive the brutality of the Ironteeth Witches to earn her place as the Blackbeak Heir.





	1. Prologue: 116 Years Ago

The blood on her iron nails was still wet, her daughter's body still warm, when the Matron of the Blackbeak clan emerged, the witchling in her arms. A bitter wind wailed through the peaks as night closed in across the Wastes. 

It had never been her intention to take the child, at least not alive. The matron had intended on leaving them both there, granddaughter or no, witchling or no. She would slide her iron nails in to the babe's soft flesh, hear Lothian’s screams before ripping her throat out as well. But by chance, the child chose the moment the matron had pricked the pale flesh beneath her chin with her iron tips to open her eyes, pure gold, and had caused her grandmother to reconsider.

Mother Blackbeak glowered, the air around her stirring as she stormed in to the keep. The Ironteeth scrambled to get out of her way, ducking their heads in respect as she passed. If any caught the scent of death clinging to her nails and teeth, they were wise and kept their own jaws locked tight.

No doubt, the child would be beautiful; Lothian had been. But the fool had gone and taken a Crochan Prince as a lover! The very creatures that had stolen their kingdom from them, and forced them in to the Wastes…and this child. 

A child of ‘peace’ Lothian had called the witchling. A bridge between Ironteeth and Crochan. No, the matron would kill the witchling herself if there was any indication of that. He would hunt the Crochan Prince to the ends of this world or the next and he would meet the same fate as his lover. 

Obedience, disciple, brutality; she would beat them in to the child until they sang like a prayer through her blood. 

The witchling stirred in her arms, blinking up at the matron in a flash of gold and snarled. 

“You,” The matron conferred, “are Manon Blackbeak.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t want her.” Manon muttered sourly.

For the better part of the last year, there had been dozens of girls brought to Mother Blackbeak, all in the hope that one would be chosen as the heir apparent’s companion. But one after another, Manon had sent the witchlings fleeing from her presence, terrified and sobbing, often with the sting of her iron nails fresh on their limbs. 

Until today.

She was a cousin of some relation near Manon’s own age. The girl and her mother had arrived to the keep the night before, riding the wind as naturally as if they had been walking the earth. Their official presence had been proceeded by the witchling’s unbridled whoops of joy as her mother’s broom dipped across the sky. 

The harder Manon pressed to send this one scampering in retreat like the others, the more the witchling seemed determined to stay. The girl was too brazen, too bold of speech, her smile to wide, her beauty too obvious. Manon had left the girl’s right eye swollen shut, and was tempted now to tear out the left as laughter still seemed to glitter in the gold. 

Not that the girl hadn’t managed to land a handful of blows of her own; Manon’s cheek was still smarting from a well-timed strike. The other witchling had endured a trashing for laying hands on the clan heir, but she’d endured it with a triumphant, cold smirk twitching at her lips. 

“I don’t care,” The matron hissed, “What you want.” She struck her across the back of her skull.

Manon felt her teeth gnashed together, but refrained from flinching at the blow. 

“She will be your companion, your second, your shadow. She will fight for you, kill for you, and if necessary, she will die for you. I command it.” The matron turned and without another word left the two witchlings alone. 

“I should throw you from the tower.” Manon growled.

The other girl grinned. “Try.” She challenged.

“I’ll have you whipped!” Manon’s iron nails snapped to life. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner! Don’t you know who I am?”

“Of course I do,” She rolled her shoulders, lazily, bored. “Otherwise I wouldn’t waste my time.”

“You’re to be my Second.” Manon cocked her head. “I could order you to jump from the tower and you’d have to obey me.”

The girl chewed at her lower lip. “That is true.” She said softly. 

For one lingering, horrible moment, she was tempted. All she had to do was say the words, and the infuriating witchling would have no choice but to obey and fling herself from the ledge. And then it would just be her again. Her, alone.

She faltered. “If you continue to show such disrespect, I will.” Manon retracted her iron nails. “But for now, my grandmother has decreed that you’re to be my companion. What is your name?”

“Asterin,” The witchling told her. “of the Blackbeak witch clan.”

“Asterin.” Manon let the word roll across her tongue for the first time, and found it worked its way naturally from her lips. She had never had a companion before, only her grandmother whose company more often frightened Manon than it brought her any comfort. Perhaps this girl would be useful after all. 

In the same manner as her grandmother, Manon turned and began striding back towards the keep. Without prompting, Asterin fell in line beside Manon.


	3. Chapter 3

“How,” Manon began, watching as Asterin reached for a third portion of meat. “Can you still eat?” 

Asterin tore in to the roast rabbit, blood dribbling down her chin. “It’s rabbit Manon, hardly a meal.” She took another bite.

A small campfire crackled gently between them, the night sky open above. Manon was clothed in a simple dark tunic and set of trousers, her bright-white hair plaited down her shoulders. Manon’s rabbit had been more than enough to fill her stomach, though that could have been account of the nerves trampling in her stomach. Not that she would ever let the others see of course. 

At eleven, the Blackbeak Matron had decided Manon was long overdue for her first kill. She’d banished from the keep to wander the Wastes, instructed not to return until she brought proof of her victory. So far, it had been three days, and the trio had made it to the edge of the forest. Using the cover of night, and hidden amongst the clouds, they had spotted the lone hut deep within the trees. 

Sorrell sat with her broom stretched across her lap, mending the bits that had taken damage in the high winds they’d rode in on. Even Manon had to admire the craftsmanship Sorrell worked in to wood as she worked. If it hadn’t been for the other witchling’s skills, she, Manon and Asterin would have been forced to trek across the Wastes on foot. 

“Are we sure there’s someone there?” Sorrell asked, looking up from her work. Her eyes were dark, nearly all black with only a scarce scattering of gold. Her hair was the color of the night sky, a stark comparison against Manon’s, which had been drenched in moonlight.

“There was smoke,” Asterin commented. “Coming from the hut.”

“Probably a hermit.” Manon picked at the flesh of the rabbit beneath her iron nails. “No one will miss him.”

Manon stood and doused the fire, kicking dirt over the embers to smother them faster. “Let’s move.” She ordered.

The trio moved through the trees, cloaked in darkness as they approached the hut. It was a small structure, thatched completely from wood and straw. As best Manon could guess, it was likely an old hunting lodge, now fallen deep in to desperate disrepair. 

“Let’s light it on fire,” Asterin whispered. “It’ll drive him out.”

“I need his head.” Manon grit her teeth. Otherwise, she couldn’t return to the keep. Not without viable proof for her grandmother that she had completed her mission. 

“So, you want to just knock on the door?”

“Shut up!” Manon hissed.

What was she going to do? She puzzled it over for a moment, blood thundering in her ears. Finally, she motioned to Sorrell. “Go around to the back,” She ordered. “Make sure he can’t get out that way. Asterin; you’re with me.”

Sorrell nodded and slipped out of sight. Manon crept against the side of the hut, ear pressed against the door. She could just make out the muffled sound of movement inside. Nodding to Asterin, she drew her dagger from her sleeve. 

Manon took a few steps back, and using her shoulder as a battering ram, slammed her weight against the door. It gave way immediately, exploding in a shower of splintering wood. Unbalanced, Manon hit the floor, hard. She recovered, rolling to the side just a boot cut the air where her face had been only moments before. Manon slashed her dagger upwards, rewarded by a sharp scream as the edge caught the back of the hermit’s leg.

With a roar, Asterin leapt over Manon, her iron teeth glittering. She pushed the hermit back away from Manon, just as her cousin pushed herself back on to her feet. Asterin’s nails tore through the man’s threadbare tunic, leaving trails of blood in their path. 

“He’s mine!” 

Manon screamed. Her own iron teeth slid in to position, her nails straining against her flesh. She lurched forward, and sunk her teeth deep in to her victim’s exposed throat. She clamped down on flesh, on muscles, on bone. Blood filled her mouth, a sweet ambrosia of salt and the taste of iron. 

She jerked her head away, tearing the throat out as she moved. Manon was aware of Asterin, ever present, at her side. And Sorrell, who had come in quietly through the back window. Manon could smell the want on them, their need. She had taken the lion’s share, as was her right as the heir. But she stepped back, offering the neck to Asterin.

The other two witchlings fell upon the corpse. Manon took her dagger and sawed, severing the hermit’s head from his shoulders. By the time it came free, Manon’s skin and clothes were soaked through with blood.

As the thrill of the kill began to wane, Manon felt her stomach twist. She had done it, she had successfully taken her first kill. But she did not think that it would feel like this; the dull ache in her chest that clouded the euphoria. She shook her head, as if she could just as simply shake away the unease.

“Ugly bastard.” She growled. Manon nodded to her Second and Third. “Now, Asterin.” She smirked. “We’ll light it on fire.”

The timbers caught easily, the flames devouring the hut as the witches retreated to their campsite. Manon had wrapped the head in cloth, and was doing her best to ignore the delicious scent of blood that wafted through the air.

“I want to return to the keep as soon as we’re able.” Manon ordered.

Asterin and Sorrell nodded and immediately got to work breaking camp. 

For her part, Manon was eager to get home, to sleep in her own bed. But more importantly, She was eager to bring her Grandmother proof of her triumph; to lay the head at the Matron’s feet and be command to rise, victorious. 

She plucked one of the three brooms Sorrell had carved, the wood smooth beneath her hands. 

“Let’s fly.”


	4. Chapter 4

The trio broke through the clouds above the keep at dawn two days later, proceeded by the stench of blood on the wind. Manon touched down, her broom clutched in one hand, the bundle tucked under her arm. 

“Stay here.” She ordered Asterin and Sorrel as they dismounted their brooms. “I’ll see the Matron on my own.”

Her Second and Third nodded.

Manon strode through the doors of the keep, head held high in triumph. Witches moved throughout the halls, bobbing their heads in respect as the heir passed them by. Still only a witchling, some were even so bold as to offer an affectionate pat on her shoulder as she strode down the hall. 

“First kill,” 

Manon heard the whispers.

“So young,”

“Mother Blackbeak will be pleased…”

Manon hoped that was the case. Her confidence seemed to cool with each step that drew her closer to the Matron’s grand chambers. By the time the witchling reached the door, cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck. The guards stationed outside the door regarded her sternly, as per her grandmother’s orders, she suspected. 

“Let me in.” Manon ordered.

“What business do you….”

“LET HER IN.”

Manon jumped at the sound of her grandmother’s voice, grateful to still be behind closed doors. The doors flung open, revealing Mother Blackbeak seated on her throne. There was a dense collection of witches at the matron’s service, all scrambling to attend to her, doing their best to avoid her volatile temperament.

“Manon…” Mother Blackbeak leered. “You were banished,” She stood, iron teeth and nails appearing. She stepped forward, prowling towards her granddaughter. 

“I was,” Manon’s voice echoed through the suddenly silent chamber. She dropped the bundle she’d been keeping out of sight, sending it across the floor with a sharp kick. “And now I’ve returned.”

Although there was no need to unwrap the head, the stench of rotting flesh and old blood was more than enough, the Matron yanked the ruined fabric aside. She snarled and lifted the head by a tangled mass of hair. The Matron leaned in close and sniffed, ensuring that Manon’s scent was firm on the kill. After several long, heavy moments, the Matron let the head drop back to the floor.

“Good.” Was all Mother Blackbeak said, striding back to her throne. 

Manon stepped forward, following her grandmother up on to the raised dais and stood firmly on the right side of the throne. The court resumed activity, the various witches of from numerous branches of Blackbeak petitioning and waiting on the matron. Manon had just about conceded that the remainder of her morning would pass in the same ebb of monotony, until the doors exploded open.

The mood in the room immediately shifted; iron teeth and iron nails drawn, a low growl from nearly every throat. It was as if the witches among Manon had turned in to feral beasts. Manon caught the scent of it, her own body responding in kind.

Two guards strode forward, a screaming, cursing figure dragging behind them. Suddenly, breaking from the crowd, a witch launched herself forward. Wailing, she swiped her iron nails at the prisoner, only to be held back by the guards.

“Freya!” The Matron thundered.

All eyes turned back to Mother Blackbeak. The matron reached out, and Manon prepared to see the witch’s head severed from her shoulders. But, shockingly enough, Mother Blackbeak rested an almost gentle hand on the witch’s face. “You will have justice. You and your witchling.”

Manon gasped, at last catching the scent on the prisoner. Witch killer. Worse, they had killed a witchling. There was no limit to the pain that such a crime deserved, no end to the punishment that would be inflicted.

The witches around her closed in, prepared to tear the witchling-killer limb from limb. Manon felt herself stepping down from beside her grandmother’s throne. She hadn’t heard about the death of a fellow witchling; it must have happened while she Asterin and Sorrell had been away the last few days. She clenched and unclenched her hands, iron scraping against her palms.

“Manon,” She looked up. Her grandmother reached out and wrapped a hand tight around her wrist. “You will watch.”


	5. Chapter 5

The witches encircled the condemned. Every one of them had their iron teeth and nails drawn, twitching with anticipation. The sickly scent rolled off the witch killer in thick waves, drawing Manon forward one step at a time. 

Kill.  
Kill.  
KILL.

The blood of the hermit still clung to Manon’s breath, but the taste was steadily growing stale, the promise of fresh, hot blood all encompassing. Mother Blackbeak left her dais, her steps echoing through the chamber, echoing Manon’s own heartbeat.

“To kill a witchling,” the Matron snarled. “Is the most grievous of crimes.” Her voice crackled through the air. “And there can be no end to the suffering of one who commits such an offense.”

The prisoner was a man, late in his years, with thinning salt and pepper hair. He had the hard build of a man who had spent most of his life as a solider, his arms covered in aged scar tissue. His nose was slightly crooked, one that had been broken and reset many times. There was fear in his dark eyes, real fear. 

Manon surveyed the room, catching sight of Asterin’s mother hovering near the edges of the ring of witches. Her pretty face was twisted with rage, a great and terrible beauty to behold. No doubt, she had held her own witchling close to her thoughts. There were others, those with known witchlings like her, a far deadlier anger simmering in their eyes.

Even Mother Blackbeak.

Something in the room finally snapped, and the witches descended. 

They fell upon the prisoner, whose screams tore through the air. Nails and teeth, tearing flesh and sawing bone. And yet, there was distant calculation; not a one pushed too far, not even Freya, whose witchling had been the one lost. No one wanted to end the prisoner’s suffering too soon, and so they were patient, dragging the pain on and on.   
Bone snapped like dry twigs, joints wrenched and twisted out of place at impossible angles. Iron nails pierced holes through ever bare inch of flesh, blood sweeping from the wounds, pooling on to the stone floor. As arteries severed, blood spraying the walls, and the faces of every witch. 

KILL.

The word tugged at Manon, but her grandmother had instructed her to watch, not to partake. And so she watched, for hours she watched, until at last the death throes of the prisoner rattled through her bones. The ends of her pale hair were dyed scarlet, her clothing ruined. Manon licked away the traces of blood that had splattered her face from her lips. The prisoners body was little more than a mangled husk, scarcely recognizable as once being human. 

When it was over, the witch Freya keened loudly. The others gathered around her, whispering words of comfort for the distraught mother. The Matron returned to her dais, nodded sharply at Manon. 

“Obedience, discipline, brutality.” Mother Blackbeak told her solemnly.

Manon nodded, repeating the words like an oath. “Obedience, discipline, brutality.”

Satisficed, Mother Blackbeak dismissed her. 

Sorrel and Asterin met her the moment she stepped outside the chamber. Asterin, undisturbed by the blood soaking through Manon’s ruined clothing rushed forward.

“What happened?!” Far less a question than a demand for answers. She reached out, drawing the tips of her fingers across Manon’s bloody cheek. She sniffed it, immediately wrenching at the scent. “Witch killer”

Manon nodded, still too shocked to snap at Asterin’s boldness. “Yes.”

“Is my mother in there?”

Again, Manon nodded.

“I wondered where she had….nevermind.” Asterin drew back. 

“I need a bath.” Manon said sharply. 

“Of course,” Sorrel said, speaking at last. “We will accompany to your chambers.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Manon dismissed them. “I’ll see you at dinner.” 

The water was scalding as Manon slipped in to her tub. She sighed in relief as the heat soaked in to her muscles, the water turning pink as the blood leeched from her skin. After the past few days of sleeping on the hard ground, this was exactly what she needed.

She lounged there for several minutes, uncaring about her own nakedness as a timid servant knocked at the door, shuffling in with an armful of fresh clothing.   
“Do you require anything else milady?”

“Out.” Manon snapped.

The servant immediately retreated. When the water grew too cold to stand, Manon shucked the clean clothes over her head, and headed towards the dining hall.


	6. Chapter 6

“Oof!” 

Manon hit the ground. Hard. Her white hair broke free from its restraints and fell wild down her slender back. She recovered, leaping to her feet just as Asterin poised to land another blow.

“Ha!” She dodged, her iron nails slashing upwards.

Asterin cursed, narrowly avoiding the razor edge of her cousin’s strike. The young witch snarled, lunging forward.

The pair crashed in to one another, tumbling like a pair of wolf pups; nipping and barking at one another for dominance. 

Sorrel watched them from a safe distance, lest she become entangled in their thrashing. Though, she was prepared to leap in to the fray if Manon and Asterin’s dance grew deadly. Mother Blackbeak encouraged their brutal play, but if any real harm came to Manon, they’d all lose their heads.

“C’mon Sorrel!” Asterin called. Sweat beaded across her brow. “Don’t you want to sharpen your claws a bit?”

Sorrel’s face scrunched. Like the others, she’d enjoyed the taste of her first kill, and all those who had followed. Some men she had slain with Manon and Asterin at her side, other’s she had taken alone, stalking like a lone wolf in the night. 

But she knew her place. 

“Looks to me,” She sighed, “The pair of you look more prepared for a nap then another round.”

Manon growled in response. Asterin only laughed. 

“Shall we fly today?” Asterin tried to keep her tone disinterested, though Manon knew better.

The Blackbeak heir peered towards the sky. “The skies look clear.” She admitted.

For nearly a fortnight, the three had been confined to the Keep, the sky bruised and menacing, and too risky to tempt by flying. As much as Asterin’s childish yearning peeved her, Manon felt herself drawn to the gentle winds rustling through the banners. 

“I’ll race the both of you.” Asterin smirked.

“I’ll knock you off your broom.” Sorrel snapped back.

“I’ll use your damn broom as firewood!” Asterin roared.

“Both of you shut it!” 

The three witchlings broke in to a fit of glaring at one another. Damn Asterin, she knew there was no better guarantee to get what she wanted, then to bet her skills against Manon’s or Sorrel’s. 

A grin curled back Manon’s lips. “Alright then.” She gestured towards the impending peaks. “First one to the top of the mountain winds. Loser has to walk home.”  
“The mountains?” Sorrel frowned. “Those are nearly a full day away!”

“Then you better hope you’re not the one walking home then Sorrel.” Manon jeered.

“You’re wicked Manon Blackbeak.”

“And don’t either of you ever forget it.”


End file.
